The Salt Road (34 page)

There had been no bull-calf for Kheddou and Leïla’s wedding: the expense was too great. Amastan, by contrast, had travelled and traded for years, amassing a tidy sum. The bride-wealth he had offered for Mariata was handsome too, though there had been no one to whom he could offer it and so the
amghrar
of the tribe, the widower Rhissa ag Zeyk, had taken it in trust until such time as it could be passed into the hands of Mariata’s family for safekeeping. If anything were to happen to Amastan, or the marriage was dissolved, the money would help towards the raising of their children.

It was Amastan who stepped out of the circle and into the arena, the indigo of his robe glittering with its metallic sheen, the brim of his tagelmust crowned by a diadem of amulets. The lance he carried was generations old, but its head had been honed to a lethal sharpness. The bull-calf stopped before him, jinked and then spun away across the ground, as if seeing its fate in the shining metal. The circle widened to let it run and it drew to a halt on the opposite side, eyeing the figure that paced towards it balefully.

‘Can’t the smith just take the beast away and cut its throat?’ Mariata asked quietly, clutching Rahma’s arm.

The older woman laughed. ‘I hardly think a year-old bull-calf is likely to do our boy much damage,’ she said; but that had not been Mariata’s thought. She had never felt particularly squeamish before over the killing of an animal, for food or for luck, but she was gripped by a deep presentiment of dread and the enad’s words came back to her forcefully: ‘Blood will be spilt …’ The calf’s blood would be spilt one way or another this day; but suddenly she did not want to see it slaughtered in front of her, no matter how fine the spectacle or traditional the ritual.

‘No!’ she cried out, and people turned, amazed. ‘Killing it like this is a bad omen,’ she declared. ‘I feel it here –’ She pressed a palm against her flank, above her liver, that place in the body from which the deepest and most authentic convictions sprang. They stared at her, and for the first time since she had left the Kel Bazgan she felt a wave of hostility envelop her.

Amastan strode across the festival ground. A few paces away from her he rammed the point of the lance deep into the earth. ‘If you do not wish to see the animal killed, I will honour your choice.’ He turned to address the crowd. ‘As you know, Mariata saved me from the Kel Asuf. She hears the spirits. If she says the slaying of the bull-calf is ill-omened, we should respect her instincts.’

People started to mutter; many touched their amulets. It was one thing not to sacrifice a calf at a wedding for lack of funds; quite another to gather for the deed and not see it done. ‘No good will come of this,’ one said.

‘Women should not interfere in a man’s ritual,’ said another.

‘I think we know who will be the master in this marriage,’ said another, which made many laugh.

Amastan shook his head ruefully. ‘You may tease me all you like, but I value my bride too much to cause her distress on this auspicious day. There’s already a fine sheep roasting for the midday
mechoui
, plenty for all to eat and no need to shed more blood. I hereby pardon the beast’s life.’ He placed his palm on his heart, bowed his head to Mariata, retrieved the lance and walked away to join his companions, leaving the artisans to deal with catching the bull-calf and returning it to the pens.

Rahma patted Mariata on the shoulder. ‘I think we’d better get the music started, don’t you?’ She nodded to the head musician, and the band quickly gathered their instruments and launched into a rendition of ‘The Hunter and the Dove’, which soon took people’s minds off the disquieting matter of the failed sacrifice.

Tana walked across the festival ground and stood before Mariata. ‘Bravely done, little one, though it won’t make any difference in the end.’ She scanned the girl’s robe and accoutrements, her head cocked to one side like an eagle surveying prey. ‘You’ll do,’ she pronounced at last. ‘Though I see you persist in wearing that damnable amulet.’

Indeed, Amastan’s amulet took pride of place in the middle of Mariata’s chest. Tana reached out and tapped it lightly but with enough force for it to press hard against Mariata’s breastbone; and abruptly the mechanism flipped open. Holding the little hatch open with a finger, the enad pressed a tiny roll of parchment into the revealed compartment, then closed the central boss back over it. ‘For luck,’ she said. ‘For life. It is the charm I should have made for Amastan when once he requested one of me. Perhaps this time it will serve its purpose. But that is not your wedding gift.’

And then she produced, as if from nowhere, the wonderful fringed leather bag in emerald green, scarlet and blue that Mariata had seen her sewing under the tamarisk. She slid the strap over the girl’s head and under her arm, positioning it so that it sat in the small of her back, where it fitted so neatly and comfortably it might have been a part of her, for all that it was heavy with contained objects. Even so, curiosity overcame Mariata: at once she twisted so that the bag swung around and, marvelling at the gorgeous clarity of the colours, at the sunburst motifs and minute stitching, she made to open it.

‘It is not to be opened now,’ Tana said sternly, repositioning the bag. You will know when you will need it most. You will have a choice to make; two lives to save. Choose wisely, no matter how hard it may be.’ Then she smiled, the expression in her fierce old eyes softening, and reached out and stroked Mariata’s cheek. ‘Take care, little one.’ And then she walked away, leaving Mariata staring after her, wondering at the strange-sounding finality of this. But there was no time to be lost on pondering Tana’s inscrutable pronouncements, for the marabout had arrived to perform the brief marriage service. Their short vows were exchanged, witnesses spoke for each of them, their hands were placed on the Qur’an, gifts were exchanged and in a surreally short passage of time they were man and wife.

After the formalities of the marabout’s blessing, the rest of the day was taken up by all the usual delights of a wedding. There was singing and drum-playing, and the sheep that had been turning on its spit since dawn was eaten with much gusto with dates and spice and bread. Camels were raced, sword-dancers showed off their agility and skill; and then the unwed girls danced the beautiful ritual
guedra
, the blessing dance, wearing their cowrie-shelled headdresses and moving their feet in the economic but precise steps of the dance, until the sun went down and the old folk nodded into a trance, lulled by the gentle repetitiveness of the clapped rhythms, until at last the momentum built to a crescendo, heads rocked and braids snapped wildly like striking snakes. The air was full of baraka – you could feel it all around – a great electric cloud of good luck and benefaction. People were gathering it to themselves, touching each other’s hands, touching their own stomach, heart and head. Amulets were kissed, children too, to spread the baraka. The women ululated joyfully. Amastan pressed Mariata’s hands to his heart: they were married at last.

The feasting and music went on and on. The men heated their drums over the campfires to tighten the skins in readiness for the faster dances. Older people took another glass of fortifying tea and a handful of dates to keep themselves going into the small hours and went off to gossip in clusters, leaving the young ones to flirt and tease one another without the embarrassment of having the married ones watching over them.

The moon was high overhead when some figures appeared on the horizon of boulders to the east of the camp: a large group of riders mounted on camels. It was one of the musicians, taking a walk into the bushes to relieve himself, who raised the alarm. The drummers stopped in mid-beat; the dancers shifted anxiously from foot to foot. Amastan said something quietly to Bazu, who slipped away into the night. Several others followed him.

‘Who can they be?’ Mariata asked. In the pale ochre of her face, her kohl-rimmed eyes looked enormous.

‘I do not know,’ said Amastan, winding his veil tighter. ‘They may be late guests delayed on their journey. Or they may not. Go to our new tent, Mariata. Outside it you will find a sword stuck in the ground to ward away the spirits. Fetch it for me now, will you?’

‘They do not look much like spirits to me,’ she said dubiously, but she went to do his bidding. The antique sword, its hilt and crosspiece bound with copper wire and decorated with bands of coloured leather, had been lent by Azelouane. Mariata grabbed it up and went running back to the festival ground, with Tana’s leather bag bumping against her back and the sword banging against her leg all the way; but Amastan was not where she had left him. Instead, she was alarmed to see him far across the encampment running towards the boulders, his hunting rifle slung across his back. She stood there with the ancient sword in her hands, feeling like a fool; then she ran after him. Other men had fetched guns now and were running too; men she had not seen before, or simply did not recognize in this warlike mode. The riders, undeterred, came closer, until a single shot rang out.

‘Who are you?’ It was the amghrar who cried out, his old voice as reedy as a woman’s.

No answer came back, but perhaps they had not heard him.

‘They are djenoun,’ someone said. ‘We should have slaughtered the bull-calf: the spirits are angry and have come to claim the blood they awaited.’

‘Announce yourselves or we will shoot!’ Amastan cried more loudly.

One of the cameleers advanced. ‘My name is Ousman ag Hamid, of the Kel Ahaggar, and my daughter is Mariata ult Yemma. I come with men of the Kel Bazgan and my sons, Azaz and Baye.’

Mariata gasped. She ran to Amastan’s side. ‘It’s my father, my father and brothers!’ She gazed into the darkness, trying to make out the features of the three men she had not seen for so long. Would they be much changed by their treks beneath the desert sun? Did they come in joy, to celebrate their union, or under the duress of familial duty? Anxiety gave way to the sudden euphoria of knowing that it no longer mattered whether they came in blessing or not: she and Amastan were lawfully wed and no one could separate them now.

‘Welcome!’ she cried. ‘Welcome one and all to our wedding feast!’

Word soon spread: people began to laugh, tension dissipated; the musicians were reassembled. Someone was dispatched to slaughter a goat and rekindle the cook-fire, someone else set pots of tea to brewing: the visitors must have travelled far and hard to arrive so late, and there was no easy way across the Tamesna.

The riders were almost upon the festival grounds when one of them rode free of the group, into the jumping light of the fires.

‘Before you celebrate any more there is a debt to be settled!’ cried a harsh voice.

Mariata stared. Dread clutched at her with its chilly hand. She knew before the firelight fell upon his face that it was Rhossi ag Bahedi.

‘This woman is a thief!’ Rhossi called loudly. ‘She stole two camels from me; but, worse than that, she stole my heart!’

People looked at one another in confusion. Was this a jest, or a serious complaint?

Rhossi drew himself up in his high saddle till he towered over them all. ‘Mariata ult Yemma took from me two fine Tibesti camels without prior arrangement; and, as everyone amongst the Bazgan knows, she was betrothed to me. Why she left so precipitously is a mystery now revealed: I see she was stolen away by one of the Kel Teggart. So there is a debt of honour to be paid. I carry the word of the amenokal of the Aïr drum-groups, Moussa ag Iba. He has declared that it is a simple enough matter and does not need to get out of hand. Give me back the camels, and the girl and I will be on my way with no hard feelings.’

It was Ousman who intervened, swerving his camel in front of the speaker. In a low but urgent voice he said, ‘You never mentioned a word of this “betrothal” to me before we set off for this gathering.’

‘If I had, would you have guided me across the Tamesna?’

The look Mariata’s father gave him was answer enough. Rhossi laughed. ‘Exactly so. Let us say I omitted that detail. But I did discuss it with my uncle, and as you know he is dying. And you know what that means, for you, and your sister, and nephews, and cousins.’

Ousman gave Rhossi a hard stare until the younger man looked away. Then he said, very quietly but firmly, ‘I have travelled a long way to find my daughter, hoping to arrive in time to dissuade her from this wedding. Had you not fallen from your camel as we crossed into the Doum, we should have been here yesterday; had you not complained constantly of the discomfort and the need for rest stop after stop as you eased your sore arse with useless unguents and more saddle-padding than any woman would use, we would have arrived the day before. Now you tell me of some “betrothal”, of which I knew nothing. As to the camels, that is a matter easily resolved and hardly worth a trip across the Tamesna. You may represent Moussa in making this claim; you may even be the next chief of the Bazgan; but Mariata is my daughter and if you have any care for her at all, you will let me handle this as is fitting.’ He clipped his camel’s poll and it obediently went to its knees; he dismounted and strode to where Amastan and Mariata stood together watching silently, Amastan with his rifle in his hand, Mariata with the ancient sword in hers.

A few paces away, Ousman inclined his head. ‘Daughter.’

‘Father.’

They did not embrace.

‘I thought I had left you safe with your Aunt Dassine, but it seems you have taken matters into your own hands. Word reached the Bazgan only a week ago of your impending wedding, and I must say your aunt is much displeased.’

Mariata’s jaw jutted. ‘There was no safety to be had amongst the Kel Bazgan, Father. I decided to leave them and come here instead.’

‘As to the matter of safety, we will come to that later. It does seem that you stole away from the Bazgan like a thief in the night, leaving no word of where you were going; and I gather two camels went missing at the same time. What have you to say to that?’

Mariata folded her lips. ‘Now is not the time to talk of such things. I had my reasons, and if you hear them you will be angry, though not with me. Let me say only that you and my brothers and the men you have with you are welcome to join our wedding celebration; but Rhossi ag Bahedi is not welcome here, nor anywhere I am present.’